


Headfirst Into a Political Abyss

by Face_of_Poe



Series: Not Subject to Congressional Approval [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Blow Jobs, Consent Issues, Dark!Washington, Hand Jobs, M/M, Manipulation, Office Sex, Power Imbalance, intern!Alexander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23672830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/pseuds/Face_of_Poe
Summary: Washington is a patient man, but never has he set his sights before on a prey that so very loudlybeggedto be reeled in, and without saying a word.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: Not Subject to Congressional Approval [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704559
Comments: 15
Kudos: 85





	Headfirst Into a Political Abyss

**Author's Note:**

> These quarantimes call for desperate measures, and by measures, I mean this twisted, twisted universe I've been sitting on for the last 2 years.  
> Did not use archive warnings - all stories exist on the dubcon - noncon spectrum to varying degrees, proceed or exit accordingly.  
> Here's the first installment, happy porndemic.

His opportunity arises on a day like any other. Nearly two weeks since the day he’d kissed the boy’s stained red lips, still tasting of the wine the whole team had passed around in abundance while they worked late one night with some of Jefferson’s people, drafting a bill the two Virginia senators intended to co-sponsor.

Not the typical scene for an intern with a month’s experience, but Hamilton had already demonstrated a keen grasp of the legislative minutiae in between his thankless mail-sorting and coffee-retrieval tasks assigned by Arnold, and Washington’s suggestion that he be invited to stay late with the rest of them raised no brows among the staff.

Only Jefferson had lit on to the latest subject of his attentions. Came to hover next to him as he stood just outside the doorway of the conference room and murmured drily, softly, “I’ve not seen that look since Tallmadge fucked off back to Yale.” And then: “Fortunately, your _possessive_ expression mostly comes across as pissed off.”

Two weeks later, and he’d think Hamilton was unfazed by the simple transgression as they parted ways, the last two out of the office, but for the pink that rises high in the boy’s cheeks while he studiously focuses on the mindless tasks Arnold’s set for him. By the way he steadily responds to Washington’s queries, and then darts his tongue out nervously to moisten suddenly dry lips.

Two weeks later, and his opportunity arises on a Friday afternoon, the office emptied early ahead of the weekend, and Washington steps in on Arnold’s attempts to shoo Hamilton away from where he’s trying to catch up on constituent emails; tagging most for pre-generated auto-responses, flagging a few for the particular attention of Tilghman or Lafayette.

“I’m going to stay and get some reading done, Benedict.” The steady blush paints Hamilton’s delicate cheekbones. “I’ll ensure Mister Hamilton heads back to his campus at a moderately reasonable hour.”

That pink tongue darts out, and then he bites his shining lower lip; worries it between his teeth.

Two weeks – Washington is a patient man, but never has he set his sights before on a prey that so very loudly _begged_ to be reeled in, and without saying a word.

Arnold leaves without any fuss, happy enough not to deal with Hamilton’s pleas of _just five more minutes_. Washington shoots the earnest young intern a look under raised brows, and then turns and retreats back to his private office.

_Reading_ , just as he said. No sense wasting the minutes as they tick by while he waits for his calculated snare to reel the boy just a little bit further.

The things he can achieve with a pointed look and an open office door; he barely makes it to the fifth page of his briefing book before a gentle tap draws his eyes up to the threshold. “Sir?” That lip gets sucked between his teeth again.

He wants to bite it until it bleeds. 

“Alexander,” he acknowledges, slowly marking his page and setting the book aside. “What can I do for you, my boy?”

The moniker darkens the flush on his face; Washington takes note. “Can, uh – can I have a word?”

“Certainly.” He nods at the chair across from his desk.

Hamilton hovers there in the doorway though, uncertain. Gestures over his shoulder and stammers, “Should I… close the -?”

“If you’d like.”

Not the answer Hamilton wants, for it offers him no clues, and Hamilton cannot win at the game if he does not understand that which they are playing.

He settles for pushing it mostly closed without bothering to catch the latch. Steps slowly forward and lowers himself carefully, eyes never leaving Washington’s, and it’s the most directly he’s looked at him these two intervening weeks.

Washington expects a certain amount of dancing about the subject before the boy can clumsily work the conversation towards the matter preoccupying him. And so when he pauses a moment, and then simply blurts, “Why did you kiss me?” it takes Washington’s all to rein in his surprise.

He frowns across the desk. “Because I desired to,” he answers, like it is the only and obvious response. A long moment passes, Hamilton’s face twisting in frustration, and he adds coolly, “Was there anything else?”

Hamilton blinks. Wrong-footed, off-guard, woefully out of his depth. “Um.” Washington’s brows rise slowly. Expectantly. “Well.” Confusion settles in his eyes, and he shakes his head a bit, puts his hands on the armrests of his chair and makes to stand. “No, I guess not, sir. Um. Sorry.” He glances at the discarded briefly book. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

Washington can’t help the low chuckle as the boy darts for the door and the relative safety of his temporary desk in the outer part of the office suite. “Alexander?” he calls, halting him with his hand on the doorknob.

He hovers there. Not turning. Throat bobbing nervously. “Sir?”

“Did you want me to do it again?”

It doesn’t matter that he can’t see his face; the back of his neck is red within moments, the tips of his ears.

“Come here, my boy.”

Determination or bravado – whatever its source, Hamilton manages to surprise him yet again when, after a considering pause, he pushes the door fully closed with a _snap_ before steeling himself and turning to meet his eyes.

But that is what makes Hamilton an unpredictable, addicting challenge. His obvious inexperience battling against a proud streak, a need to prove himself that apparently extends well beyond his impressive academics.

Washington rolls his chair back as Hamilton approaches him. Slow, careful. Nervous. “I believe,” he murmurs, taking the boy by the wrists and guiding him to stand directly in front of him as he turns in his seat, “the question to which you truly crave an answer is -”

“Why did you _want_ to kiss me?” Hamilton breathes.

“Because,” Washington traces gentle fingers across the sensitive flesh of one of Hamilton’s inner forearms. Revels in the shiver it elicits. “You are guileless enough to ask such a question of me.”

Hamilton pulls back in surprise; Washington tightens his grip and stands abruptly, crowding into his space and turning the boy around so his back is pressed to Washington’s broad chest. He can feel the boy’s heaving breaths, surprise and perhaps a tinge of fear, as he places a steadying hand on one hip; as he uses the other to draw his long hair off of his nape and skim ghosting fingers across his neck.

“I’ll repeat the question,” he whispers hot in his ear. “Do you want me,” he trails his lips down the line of the boy’s jaw, “to kiss you again?”

Hamilton trembles in his hold and does not answer. But when Washington’s lips brush the corner of his mouth, he does not recoil; and when Washington’s fingers tilt his face, he does not fight it, and Washington holds him like that, flush against him, and plunders Hamilton’s mouth with lips and tongue and teeth while the boy just pants against him, open and vulnerable for the taking.

By the time he’s done, he can see the hard outline of the boy’s cock; knows Hamilton must feel his own pressing against him in turn. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, tracing his lips back over his jaw across his ear, placing one gentle kiss at the back of his neck. “Clever and witty, and far more intelligent than most of the lazy whelps who pass through this office.”

“ _Sir_ ,” Hamilton gasps, voice wavering and his whole form shaking like he’s trying to escape his own body.

He reaches carefully down, trapping the boy in the circle of his arms as he works the fastenings of his pants. Takes far too much pleasure in the increasingly haggard breaths tearing from Hamilton’s lungs, and presses himself against the boy’s backside with total lack of subtlety when the first touch of his fingers against his length pulls a low whimper from his throat.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, absurdly, like Hamilton will say no once he already has a hand drawing his flushed cock slowly from his pants. “Will you let me make you feel good?”

Stuttered, agonized breaths. He pulls the boy around and urges him to sit in Washington’s own chair. A blink of surprise steals some of the hazed confusion from Hamilton’s eyes, and Washington gets his hand back on him, skims the faintest touch of his fingertips from root to the glistening head.

“Give me your hand,” Washington tells him, kneeling in front of the chair. Hamilton obliges, a near-automatic motion, and Washington takes it and replaces his own on the boy’s cock. “Show me,” he whispers. “Show me what you like, my boy. Show me how to touch you.”

“I can’t.” It comes out close to a sob, and Washington drinks in the way his eyes press closed in embarrassed mortification, the red flush lingering persistently on his cheeks to match. “It’s too – this is your office – your _desk_ , and -”

“Can I tell you what _I’d_ like?” Washington asks silkily, moving their hands together against Hamilton’s objections, artlessly dragging up and down and making the boy keen in desperation. “I’d like you, right here.” He curls a hand along Hamilton’s jaw and digs his fingers in, hard, until his eyes fly open with a gasp. “Here,” he repeats, nodding at the space under the desk. “While I work. That smart mouth of yours at my disposal.”

“ _Sir_ ,” Hamilton gasps again, head thrown back, a shade of indignation underlying his tone.

“A warm, wet, willing place to sink my cock during all the daily tedium of this office.” Hamilton’s eyes fly closed; their fists move faster, friction eased by the steadily leaking precome. “How long do you think you could stand it, Alexander?” he asks, pulling his hand slowly away and watching Hamilton continue to pump at his own cock, lost in the fantasy despite the initial mortification it seemed to inspire. “How long can you sit still, when you put your mind to a task?”

He doesn’t expect an answer.

And yet, overwhelmed as he is, Hamilton is not out of surprises.

“As long as I must,” he gasps, “given the proper incentives.”

A startled laugh slips unbidden from Washington’s mouth. Hamilton finally opens his eyes to look at him, gaze distant and foggy, his hand working slower, more measured, as he pulls himself closer and closer.

“Incentives,” Washington muses. “What incentives shall I offer, Alexander?”

A lazy smirk curls the corner of Hamilton’s mouth and his lips part while he sucks in ragged breaths.

Washington watches Hamilton watch _him_ , and makes a split decision. Seizes the boy’s wrists again, earning a grunt of surprise as it disrupts the rhythm of his slowly-building orgasm, and pins them to either arm of the chair.

And he leans down, and pulls the head of Hamilton’s flushed and leaking cock into his mouth.

“Oh, _God_.” Hamilton fights the hold, but Washington knows he must be close already and does not relent. Takes him deep, curls his tongue around the head, lightly scrapes his teeth along his shaft, and waits for the last, desperate, “ _Sir_ -!” before pulling off and stroking him through it, a mess of come spilling over his hand, dripping onto Hamilton’s pants.

A single spot mars Washington’s otherwise pristine suit – a tiny wet patch near the knot of his tie. He glances down; glances at Hamilton, just to see the progression of hazy pleasure giving way to disbelief and shock and mortification anew as he reaches for a handkerchief and dabs carefully at the stain.

“I’m -”

Hamilton aborts the impulse to offer an apology, seems to recognize its absurdity. Confusion twists his features instead though, and he can’t seem to meet Washington’s eyes as he tucks himself hurriedly back inside his pants.

“I think that’ll do, for tonight.” Washington stands, grabs his briefing book, and slides it into his briefcase. Packing up to head home for the weekend, like any other Friday.

Hamilton just stares and gnaws on his lip again. Still slumped in Washington’s chair. “Sir?”

“Go home, Alexander.”

“But sir -”

Washington takes him by the hand and hauls him up out of the seat. Drags him in for a punishing kiss, bites that same lip the boy’s been worrying since Arnold left, and swallows the gasp as he breaks the skin, tastes a faint hint of metallic blood. “We’ll pick this up on Monday, my boy,” he promises quietly against Hamilton’s ear. “Go home.”

And Hamilton obeys.

**Author's Note:**

> There are 4 works in this series, each somehow more fucked than the last. With a potential 5th that is yet resistant to moving from my brain to my screen.  
> (Parts 3 & 4 also feature Jefferson)  
> I feel like it should be noted that this came about as a sort of... complete inverse (tonally) of the Conway Cabal 'verse, where there are some corrupt people in a fundamentally good system.  
> As opposed to this verse, which is just corrupt people doing the awful shit the corrupt system enables them to do.


End file.
